


Falling Daggers

by JensonLevi



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Deep Roads, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, dark spawn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 09:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JensonLevi/pseuds/JensonLevi
Summary: Zevran gets hurt and Sten takes came of him.





	Falling Daggers

**Author's Note:**

> There is a lack of SteVran. I need this in my life. I need more.
> 
> So I wrote my own.

The Warden cut through the horde of darkspawn, the mighty Qunari at his side. The Mage, Morrigan, lit their blades with fire. The bright oranges and yellows overwhelmed the creatures. Their skin singed and flesh singed from the flame. The creatures screamed as they fell. Their voices carried down through the wet cavern walls, far enough to reach the assassin.  
While enjoying the fight as he always did, Sten’s mind wandered to the slender and rather vulgar mouthed assassin. The Crow had long since left. He was sent ahead to scout for survivors in the deep roads. The Qunari always had an irrational need to protect him. From their first meeting, Sten wouldn’t have cared whether Zevran lived or died (although he would have prefered it if the Warden had killed him). Day by day and quest by quest, he grew to accept the Crow’s pressesence. He rather enjoyed it, too.  
With that enjoyment he also worried, like he was now. He knew they were nearly overwhelmed by the darkspawn. But the three of them were more than enough to handle it. Although, without Morrigan they would have struggled. Zevran was alone and engaged in combat with an unknown number of those foul beasts.

Zevran felt like had been gone for hours. The farther he traveled, the more discouraged he became. He had little faith in finding any dwarves, soldiers or mercenaries. There were no civilians hoping that they would be saved. There were no travelers who had gotten lost, hoping for a shortcut to Denerim. He had expected to find a darkspawn or two, but it seemed they are all preoccupied with the Warden.  
To be honest, he was quite bored.  
It was oddly quiet, aside from the ghostly echoes coming from the thrawl that had his comrades (assumably) full attention. He was familiar with the sounds of caves and tunnels. In Antiva (as well in the Free Marches with oddly similar cavern systems) there were always noises beneath the surface. Scurrying rats, droplets of water dripping into puddles that never evaperate, cries of the lost, laughs of the secret lovers, voices of the wicked whose lives he was paid to end.  
The deep roads were dark, dim, quiet and musty, not to be confused with musky, a smell that Zevran rather enjoyed.  
Of course, Zevran also found quiet places calming. But this silence was anything but that. It was eery. Something felt wrong but the Elf could not place his finger on it.  
The Elf huffed and swung his blades as he walked. The weight of them was a comfort in this place full of uncertainty. Sten was easier to navigate than this place. Sten is like a locked box within a locked box within a locked box and the locks grow in complexity. After digging around and breaking several picks, you finally get somewhere. The first end result: finding that Sten likes cookies. The second and less desirable result: Sten threatens you.  
His longsword dragged on the floor. “Hello~?” Zevran sang, hoping to get the attention of a Dwarf or perhaps a darkspawn or two. Something that could entertain him would have been lovely.  
The Assassin was only met with silence.  
With a huff, he took a seat on a large rock that had fallen from the ceiling long ago. He rested his elbows on his knees and slumped forward. Looking straight ahead, he could see a fire burning. But there were always fires burning in large areas like this in the deep roads. But this lair was stange. Darkspawn do not normally have trinkets or treasures. This one did.  
Curiously, Zevran stood and walked around to investigate. Going up a set of stairs and closer to the fire, he could see a distant shadow scurry. The owner of it seemed gimped and weak.  
This was a miscalculation.  
His daggers fell to the ground with a metallic clank as the creature’s blade sank into Zevran’s left flank. The Crow let out a choked gasp. He looked down and felt with his fingers. A blade was lodged into his side. His fingers were coated with blood. His blood. With wide eyes, he looked over his shoulder.  
Disgusting and gaunt. A Dwarf stood behind him with a sickening grin. Zevran tried to dislodge the blade, but it was no use. The Dwarf sliced the blade out. Blood spilled from the wound. Zevran screamed in pain and in terror.  
As he fell to the ground, the Dwarf crawled closer, ripping at his armour and flesh. Zevran screamed for help, pushing the tainted Dwarf. This only seemed to anger him as he bit at the Elf’s hand. His teeth sank into his fingers and palm.  
“Sten! STEN!” He cried, hoping he would get their attention. He felt even more panicked as he felt his warm blood caress his back and soak into his armour. As his vision darkened, he could see shadowy figures coming through the entrance of the lair.

When he woke, he felt heavy and numb. The lids of his eyes were sluggish and wished to stay shut, but he had to see. He could not stand the darkness any longer. He wished to see the moon glisten in the harbor of Antiva or smell the tanned leather he had grown to love.  
But he was only met with disappointment. Above him was a hide roof of his tent, dark from the evening sky. He tried to sit up. This movement only resulted in burning pain shooting up his side. His lips parted to let out a cry, but all that came from him was a pitiful whine. His mouth was dry. His tongue felt like sand.  
With great effort, he managed to get onto his right side and shimmy his way to the entrance of the tent. He let out little grunts as he did so. He felt so weak and heavy. The evening fire was blazing. He could feel the heat of it on his face. Across from him, the stoic Qunari. He polished his blade silently, staring into the fire’s light.  
“St-sten.” But sten did not hear him. He continued to polish the iron of his broadsword. Zevran slid farther out. His arm pushed into the dirt. Others were either asleep or away with the Warden. “Sten,” Zevran wheezed.  
The Qunari finally looked up. His eyes widened as he seen the blonde laying in the dirt. Quickly, Sten picked up the injured Assassin and carried him back into his tent. Not Zevran’s tent, Sten’s tent. A cot laid against the east wall. Sten laid Zevran down on it. The Elf grabbed for him, not ready for the loss of contact. Sten grabbed his wrists and shook his head. The Elf could only whine.  
The world grew dark once again. The slight sounds became overwhelmed with the sound of silence. Zevran must have fallen asleep yet again. He was only woken by the chilled feeling of water trickling into his mouth. He swallowed the clear, refreshing liquid and opened his eyes. The stoic man above him had tilted a water skin against the Elf’s lips.  
Dry lips were moistened by a freshly wet tongue. The cracking, sensitive skin was refreshed, although the small amount of water would do little to help them.  
“Why?” Zevran croaked. His voice was coming back, thankfully. He rather enjoyed the sound of his voice.  
“You have been asleep for days. You were attacked by a darkspawn tainted dwarf.” Absentmindedly, Sten brushed back Zevran’s knotted hair. Silence lingered between them. Sten stayed seated at Zevran’s side, fingers in his hair.  
“We should change your bandages…” Sten said quietly, reaching under the cot to pull out a small pack.  
Delicately, he helped Zevran sit up with his legs over the side of the cot. The Elf was hardly able to hold himself up, but he was determined. He would not allow Oghren or Leliana see him in such a fragile state. He placed his hands on Sten’s shoulders for stability as he worked.  
Sten unraveled the bandages around the smaller man’s torso. The bandages were stained with brown and ugly yellows. He would have to get Wynne to check it later. Infection was beginning to set it. Soon Zevran would be getting sick from it. The bruising didn’t seem to be getting any better either. The stitches hold his organs in place were still masked by the purple and black bruises.  
New bandages were tightened around the wound tightly to absorb any fluid that drained out and keep foreign bodies out. Once Sten was finished redressing the wound, Zevran was already asleep. The Qunari couldn’t help but chuckle. The poor boy. He must have been so exhausted.  
Sten didn’t move him. He would let him rest. He stepped out of the tent and resume his watch.


End file.
